You are correct, brother Grapevine. It is the truth you speak.

They believe the hour is coming; the future is bleak.

"Nothing matters anymore. I only need the end

But I don't see it. These wounds never mend."

Look, their artists are like gods. No, no! Not like us, of course.

But who listens, who watches? It doesn't matter, as long as money roars.

What worth am I to them? Oh, uninspired creatures.

Plague, I sent you, yet you look up to these amateurs.

What use is my harp, father? My staff? They still all die.

They are cogs in a machine. Day in, day out, they struggle to survive.

I wish I had an oracle like in the days of Delphi.

Maybe we can interfere and once more make them feel alive?